


Prizes over Discovery

by Keiko Kirin (sakana17)



Series: Prizes over Discovery [1]
Category: Master and Commander (movie), Master and Commander - O'Brian
Genre: Age of Sail, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-10
Updated: 2003-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakana17/pseuds/Keiko%20Kirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story is set just after the movie, and is mostly based on movie canon, but it also draws from book canon. Thevetia critically helped iron out some of the more severe wrinkles.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Prizes over Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set just after the movie, and is mostly based on movie canon, but it also draws from book canon. Thevetia critically helped iron out some of the more severe wrinkles.

Captain Jack Aubrey was in high spirits this evening as he sat at the head of the table in the great cabin, windows open behind him, regarding his dinner. The _Acheron_ had been escorted safely to Valparaíso and sent on, while the _Surprise_ lingered for repairs and the taking on of stores. Through fortuitous timing, the packet ship _Heloise_ had arrived a week after the _Acheron_'s departure, bringing Aubrey new orders and, with the goodwill of the _Heloise_'s captain, supplying the _Surprise_ with a new sailing master and carpenter's mate.

Jack raised his glass again. "Gentlemen. To Captain Pullings, and to our prize." Which, with God's speed, had rounded the Horn already. He thought he heard from Stephen a murmured, "Again?" and met the doctor's eye as he drained his glass. Stephen lifted his glass with a nod of the head and sipped austerely, and after all Jack did recollect toasting good Tom Pullings and the _Acheron_, separately, earlier.

He rather missed seeing Pullings' sabre-scarred face as he looked upon his companions, but with everyone in such good humours, the evening had been jolly. Mr Church, the new master, had told an anecdote of keen interest; Mr Howard had learnt several new jokes in Valparaíso he was eager to recount; Stephen had told a brief if incredible story involving his narwhal tusk; and Mr Mowett had provided several instances of poetry, one spontaneous for the occasion. A surplus of food, an especially fine spotted dog, laughter around the table, and a clear night enveloping the _Surprise_ as she ran southerly lifted Jack's spirits higher as he reached for the bottle. He had just decided to toast the lovely women of Valparaíso, several of whom he had known, as soon as Mr Howard finished his joke, when he noticed Mr Blakeney's chin drop to his chest. Blakeney's glass tilted precariously in loose fingers, and not wishing to rouse the ire of Killick -- for both the cloth and the glass were under immediate threat -- Jack pounded on the table and declared, "That is the cleverest one yet tonight, Mr Howard!"

Howard, who had not yet delivered the stunning line, fell silent and puzzled. Blakeney's head lifted, glass and cloth were saved, and everyone stared at Jack in expectation. Jack hesitated; he hated to give up his witty toast about the women, though if spared for another occasion perhaps he could refine it. He was quite sure there was a great pun to be made if he thought on it some more. He lifted his glass and took a small sip and pronounced the evening one of the finest, thanks to his guests. All smiled and finished their glasses, and before the last one was lowered, Killick was snatching up the cloth.

Stephen and Mr Church engaged in some private conversation regarding a curious fish of Mr Church's acquaintance, and both men lingered as they rose from the table, discussing gills and the like. Jack didn't mind, and finished the glass listening to Stephen's interest, and trying to recall Mr Mowett's clever rhyme -- something something _larboard raked and vengeance slaked_. He watched the night, praised the breeze, and thought of nothing in particular in his happiness. Mr Church made his leave, and Stephen was slow to follow, musing, no doubt, on fins and fisheyes.

"A fine night," Jack remarked genially. He tugged at his loosened neckcloth and felt the air on his neck.

"Very pleasant," agreed Stephen. "Mr Church has some most interesting tales. He should prove an entertaining companion."

Jack caught the stress on _tales_ and turned to Stephen. "A dissembler?"

Stephen moved his lips in a familiar way Jack recognised as Stephen hiding a smile, though to his eyes it was not hidden at all. "I have seen and learned of many fantastic beasts, but a bearded haddock from the Tyrrhenian strains credulity."

Jack shared his friend's smile. "Ah. But a good man nonetheless. He came highly praised."

Stephen nodded and turned to go. Jack stayed him with a touch on his arm, for his spirits were still flying, and he was not ready for the solitary night. "Do you mind? I should like the company."

"Not at all, not at all," Stephen said, sitting down, and Jack joined him after discarding his jacket on a chair. The silence was comfortable as they sat and watched the moon's reflection in the wake and listened to the low, roaring rush of the _Surprise_ well-handled by her caring crew.

After a while another, odd noise wove with the rush, and Jack recognised it as humming, though he could not name the variation. "Is that the Bach?" he asked, absently wiping from his face a lock of hair untethered by the wind. Stephen didn't answer, but hummed, and Jack looked at his friend. Stephen's eyes were closed, and a faint smile visited his lips, darkened by the port. He had trimmed his whiskers in Valparaíso to a presentable neatness, but what caught Jack's eye was the colour in Stephen's face, which was not his usual unholy paleness. Stephen's graceful fingers moved just above his knee, pressing phantom strings. Jack named the piece from its fingering and smiled, recalling their last practice of it.

He moved closer, he told himself, so that he would not have to raise his voice and startle Stephen out of this rare moment. And it was only reasonable to touch Stephen's knee to get his attention. After that, he was not sure why he was compelled to say aloud the thought in his mind, which was, "Your cheeks are an uncommon pink tonight, my dear. The colour reminds me of a particular sunrise at Port Mahón."

Stephen opened his eyes, and the sunrise deepened and spread, burnished with gold from the candles. He stared at Jack, saying nothing but with his lips parted, and he looked not wholly discomforted by the observation, but unsure how to respond. Jack, who had been about to mention that lately the colour of Stephen's eyes put him in mind of calm Caribbean waters, instead leaned forward and touched his lips to Stephen's, just briefly, and very softly so that he felt Stephen's gasp of breath. It was not what Jack had expected to do, but it seemed the fitting thing to do, and he found that as soon as he drew away, he wanted to do it again. So he did, this time more firmly and slower, and when a hint of sweetness from the wine and spotted dog tempted him, he licked at the taste still resting on the soft warmth of Stephen's lips. Stephen laid his hands upon Jack's breast and clutched his waistcoat in curling, strong fingers. Jack sighed against Stephen's lips, feeling very contented for it was easy to be so tender with Stephen, and indeed, Stephen's responses answered perfectly, as in their finest duets.

Jack desired to press forward and taste more from Stephen, but paused before going on, as it seemed fit to enjoy this closeness leisurely. He gazed into Stephen's eyes, was now reminded of the stormy Channel, and smiled. Stephen licked, then pursed, his lips, and uncurled his fingers. Pushing Jack back the merest distance yet with determined force, he said, turning his head, "You've had too much to drink this evening." He was calm, although sweating. He stood, graced Jack with a brief nod, and wished him goodnight before departing the great cabin. Jack sat alone, above the rush of the wake, staring after him, and finally felt the cold in the wind.

\-----

Stephen stayed in the orlop overnight to tend his patient, he told himself. Though indeed his patient needed little tending; the slime draught had answered nicely, and Padeen had watched over the poor boy all evening. Stephen sat with his book and read the same paragraph seven times.

What had Jack been about, he wondered as he at last closed the book. Though Jack enjoyed his wine too much on occasion, Stephen had never witnessed his friend forget himself so completely. Stephen stroked his hair forward, conceding that Jack had not been the only man to forget himself, and Stephen was quite unhappy with his brief loss of control. If only Jack's enticement had not been so unexpected and so against his character. Stephen had had no warning, no time to prepare or escape. Jack had, Stephen reflected, acted as his hero Nelson: never minding the manoeuvres, just went straight at him. That Stephen was not one of his damnable prizes, a barque or sloop or xebec, had seemed to escape Jack's notice. It had been the drink, of course; though Stephen had not satisfactorily explained for himself what obscure machinations in Aubrey's sodden brain had led to the moment.

Stephen sat back and removed his spectacles and laid them on his book. He watched his sleeping patient and listened to the ship's sounds around and above him. His gaze drifted beyond the hammock to his surgery kit and the bottle of laudanum. He pursed his lips and stuck his spectacles back on and opened his book. The same paragraph confronted him, and while he stared blankly at the words, he recalled how Jack's lips had felt: soft, warm, and quite gentle. Strands of Jack's gold hair, worked loose by the wind, had pricked and tickled Stephen's cheek, and Jack's hand had rested squarely on his knee. His breath had smelled of wine and warmth, and there had been something quietly fearsome about him, not unlike a trained but cunning beast kept on a rope. It troubled Stephen to think this, but the thought stirred old memories of their escape from France, and he smiled and almost laughed.

Safely retreated into the realm of unambiguous and untroubling memories, Stephen relaxed and eventually fell asleep in his chair, rocked by the swaying of the _Surprise_ and for once untempted by the book on his lap.

He was woken some time later by Padeen and a friend of the patient's, informed that it was morning watch, and after some restless lingering in his tiny cabin, he put on his banyan and went above for air. Furtive and suspicious looks from the hands greeted him, and he puzzled over it until he perceived that the quarterdeck was deserted, or nearly so, save for Bonden, Jack, and a few men quietly and quickly going about their work. Mowett, Howard and Church stood by the rail, quietly conversing and casting looks back at their captain. And indeed the sight forced Stephen to halt in his stroll around the deck, causing curses and jostlings and muttered, "Beg pardons," as the men continued to work around him.

Jack stood stiffly straight, hands clasped behind his back, staring ahead with a grim, coldly fixed stare that was not anger or impatience or any passion the men had seen and were accustomed to. His hat was precisely set upon his head and under it the bob of his hair flew as the wind blew it. The only other animation was the fringe of his epaulettes; all else was still.

Stephen stared at him for some time, troubled in a deep and uncomfortable way which he did not want to examine. He was shoved from behind -- likely an accident -- and forced back into his stroll. As he passed near the quarterdeck, Mr Mowett came close and said with bent head, "If you please, Doctor, will you join the Captain?"

Stephen turned back to look at Jack, who did not move or return his look in any way. He asked of Mowett, "Did Captain Aubrey request that I join him?"

"Oh, no, sir," answered Mowett, who flushed under the penetrating stare Stephen directed at him. Mowett lowered his voice and explained, "It's his mood, sir. We can't figure it out. We must be doing something wrong, but we've been reefing and tacking all day, just as the Captain likes. If there's something... Well, Doctor, we hoped you might, ah, find out for us."

Stephen glanced over his shoulder again at the forbidding figure, and this time caught that Jack's eyes were upon him, dark and solemn, before Jack looked away, lifting his chin. Stephen knitted his brow and said to Mowett, "If the men are doing something wrong, sure, I cannot be the one to tell you, even if I could have it out of him, which I doubt. But take comfort in the certainty that if that were the case, Captain Aubrey would tell you himself. I have never known him to stay silent when there's something he wishes to reef or tack."

The frown of consternation which appeared briefly on Mowett's face informed Stephen he had made some arcane naval _faux pas_. Mowett said, "Yes, sir," and nodded and left him alone. Stephen forebore turning back and abandoned his stroll to return to his cabin. As he stepped onto the ladder, he heard a seaman remark to his neighbour, "It's them two at odds again, that's what it is."

\-----

Jack dined alone with his charts. He cast a longing glance at his violin, but did not dare contemplate it. His humour, so recently high, had sunk low. His spirit had left the trades for the doldrums, he thought, and was so pleased with the turn of phrase, he jotted it down on the edge of a chart. He must remember to show it to Stephen sometime, he thought before he could stop his mistake, then he cursed and crossed out the words. Killick suddenly appeared with the coffee and few mutters.

Jack did not believe his friendship with Stephen was at an end; he had every faith that it was not. But his blunder so recently had made him painfully aware of a situation that was not of his choosing. Indeed, had he a choice, he would have chosen most other courses, because he was not pleased to feel so helpless. He could take the _Surprise_ around the most treacherous waters faster than any other ship of her class; he could train his gun crews night and day until they fired two shots for every one of the enemy; he could calculate the most complex course of beating and tacking. He was not a helpless man. What he could not do was strike Stephen from his heart and mind and cease yearning for his company. He would gladly suffer Stephen's most tiresome speech if it kept the doctor within sight. He would hunt the corners of the Earth himself for rare plants and beasts if by doing so he could taste Stephen's lips and feel his breath shudder again. And for more intimate touches, what would he do, he wondered, not daring to think of it, for these were useless, troubling thoughts.

He spent a restless night prowling his cabin and then the quarterdeck, his sudden appearance sending the first watch into a renewed concentration of effort. He stood at the gunwale and stared at the night, soothed by the creaks and moans of the _Surprise_ and the water's rush. If only Stephen didn't make it so damned hard, Jack thought, and it felt good, in a mean way, to blame the whole incident on Stephen. They had been the closest friends and companions for years. If Jack felt like showing his tender affection for his friend, it was hardly to be wondered at. Having it dismissed as a drunken accident rankled.

But mean this line of thinking was, and unfair. He had startled Stephen, that was all. Scared him off into the shallows, as it were. Now Jack should come about and wait for the approach. It was, he reflected, not unlike Stephen on one of his nature expeditions: having scared the desired creature away, it was best to wait, watching its home, until it emerged again to be captured. Jack was troubled to think of it in this way, and it roused memories of their dark days in France. Still restless, he went below, and found solace in wine and calculations on his charts.

The first storm battered them the following day, and the next another came, and soon they were at the Horn. Without the pursuit of a prize, Jack took the rounding as cautiously as he could, but not without peril and some distress. They lost no one, thanks to God, but poignant memories of their previous course were never far. Jack visited Stephen in the orlop, where he and Padeen were busy with broken bones and moaning men. They talked little; the rolling of the hull, the shouts of the men, and the pounding of the sea were ready distractions.

Once again in the South Atlantic, Jack prepared a celebratory meal to mark a successful crossing. He sent Killick with an invitation to the doctor -- a formality Jack hadn't observed with Stephen in years; and Jack saw that Killick raised his eyebrows in surprised curiosity.

"Just go along there, Killick. Ask the doctor, with the captain's compliments." Jack had found a sheaf of abandoned music amongst his African charts and was busy marking changes for cello and violin. He imagined Stephen's delight when presented with the result. Stephen would express surprise at Jack's industry, not without some counter comment to disparage it, which he knew Jack would indulge. Then he would put on his spectacles and read over the paper, humming and making corrections. Jack would stand behind him, and lean forward to take the pen and correct Stephen's corrections. He could place his lips upon Stephen's brow then, Jack thought. It would be quite natural and gentle, and Stephen could have no cause to hurry off. Then they would lift their bows and attempt the piece.

Killick returned with the wine and a cloth for the table, working around Jack until Jack was forced to gather up his papers and move to the bench.

"The doctor says he can't come up," Killick announced bluntly, keeping his eyes on Jack for a reaction.

Jack nodded. "Thankee, Killick. Go along and brush my coat. Now, if you please," he said, sending Killick out. Left alone, Jack looked down at the sheets of music and rolled the pen in his fingers before sighing and setting it down. He stared out at the dark sea and the pink sky of sunset. The pink reminded him of a sunrise at Port Mahón, he told himself, although his memory stayed on the warm, sweet touch of Stephen's lips.

\-----

Gifted with a deceased, curiously shrivelled eel from one of the men, Stephen sat in his cabin making notes when he heard a faint knocking. Young Blakeney stood by the door, already looking at the eel with interest. Stephen invited him in and handed him paper and pen.

"I thought you should be dining," Stephen said.

"I dined last time, sir. Tonight the captain invited Mr Boyle and Mr Williamson." Blakeney lifted his pen and poked at the eel with it. "I hope they will not drink so much. Boyle is so slovenly with his food." Blakeney had become foremost of the midshipmen in Calamy's place, and possessed an incumbent sense of moral responsibility for his berth.

"I very much doubt the captain will notice," Stephen said, peering at the shrunken eel tail.

"I should think he will," Blakeney said. He sketched the shape of the eel and went about putting dots on it as shading. "There's very little the captain does not notice."

They worked on drawing and describing the eel carcass until Blakeney's next watch. Alone in the cabin, Stephen pondered Blakeney's words about the captain. It was true that when it came to his men, his floating world, there was very little Jack didn't know. But Stephen had always supposed himself to be removed from that sphere. They were the closest of friends, and shared many secrets, but Stephen had kept some secrets secure, even from Jack. Could it be, he asked, that Jack had seen deeper into Stephen than Stephen was willing to admit? Could Jack have observed the very thoughts Stephen had worked so methodically on hiding?

Stephen found an empty jar for the eel and stoppered it. The problem rested with Jack, he was sure, and he felt some consolation in this. Jack could not know what Stephen was barely able to admit to himself, therefore Jack's overture had been mistaken. This thought satisfied Stephen so much that he regretted turning down the invitation to dinner, as fascinating as the shrivelled eel had been.

He made a few more notes, until he was startled and interrupted by Jack marching into the cabin, a blaze of gold and blue. Jack stopped just inside the door and stood up to his full height, and he filled the room with his wine-scented breath, his sweaty heat, and his agitation. For a moment, Stephen's breath caught, for the sight was one of fantastic, opiate dreams.

"My dear doctor, this just won't do. It won't do at all." Jack's words ran together quickly, hastened by too much wine. Stephen sat back and stroked his hair. "I've just had the most damnable dinner, the most-- Do you know what that vile midshipman did? Do you know? He puked on my plum duff, doctor! This simply won't do."

Jack took a step as if to pace, but finding there was no room, stopped and loomed over Stephen with his hands on his hips, breathing and snorting in indignation. Stephen removed his spectacles and closed his notebook, and said, "Joy, I am sorry for it. Is the young gentleman gravely ill?"

"Stephen!" Jack roared. "My plum duff! And do you know why?" He leaned forward, somewhat unsteadily, until his face was close to Stephen's. Stephen made to lift his hand and stroke his cheek and calm him, but suppressed the impulse. "It's you, you creature," Jack said, lowering his voice enough that perhaps, Stephen thought, the upper decks couldn't hear. "I invited you to my table, I had a most pleasant surprise for you, but you hid down here with your books and beetles while I had to fill my table with midshipmen who can't hold their drink or restrain their stomach enough to keep my plum duff from menace. You try me grievously, Stephen, indeed you do." This last was said very quietly, and with Jack's piercing gaze softening and slipping away to the table.

He roused himself and stood up straight. "Well," he said, working his jaw back and forth. "I suppose you had better take a look at the lad. Make certain he's not with fever or anything worse than overindulgence." He looked down at Stephen, trying to be severe but unable to hold it. A lock of his hair fell forward and brushed his jaw, diminishing the effect further. He picked up Stephen's notebook and held it closed, turning it over as if it were a strange relic he wished to cast at the sea.

Stephen stood and took the book away and rubbed Jack's knuckles softly with his palms. Jack looked at him, and Stephen said in a low voice, "This time, you have had too much to drink, my dear. I will see to Boyle." (Jack muttered, "It was Williamson.") "And I am sincerely sorry for your plum duff."

Jack turned his hands over and held Stephen's fingers. He rubbed them with his thumbs. "Yes. Well. I'll leave you to it then, Doctor." He nodded once, squeezed Stephen's fingers, and let them go. He left the cabin for the wardroom, where Mowett and Howard were conspicuously lingering and casting looks toward Stephen's doorway, and strode off. Stephen rubbed his hands together, for Jack's warmth was still upon them.

\-----

Jack was woken by the _Surprise_ straining at her course. He dressed and ran up the ladder to see the storm swiftly coming at them. He called for Mr Church and spent the rest of the drenching day beating and tacking around, then through, the storm. By the end of it, they were barely off course, but had not progressed far. Jack went to his cabin and slept, woke with the coffee, and reemerged to climb the main topgallant mast and get his bearings.

Good _Surprise_, she was well on her way. He had no anxiety on her account. His wayward thoughts were of Stephen, and it calmed him to sit aloft with the wind and light rain and the horizon. He had shared the joy of the top mast with Stephen only rarely, and with extremely limited success, but they were dear memories all the same, for the wind and sea and Stephen were a special combination and a very private prize. He smiled as he remembered, and after a while stirred himself and climbed down the ratlines.

Killick had coffee waiting, inexplicably with two cups. Jack drank from his and saw in Killick's eyes an expectant, curious gleam. Killick tilted his head toward the ladder three or four times. Jack deciphered this unsubtle hint and went below, followed by Killick and the coffee.

Stephen was sitting in the great cabin, an inexcusable liberty from anyone else, plucking and tuning his cello. He looked up at Jack and said, "My joy, this is a most pleasant surprise indeed." He pointed at the music -- retrieved from Jack's papers, another allowable liberty -- with his bow. "I've just made some minor corrections. I'm sure you'll find them much more suitable."

Jack smiled, filled with a great, warm glow. Finally managing to send Killick off with his coat, Jack picked up his violin, and they worked through the piece, in starts and stops, correcting each other as they went. By the time they had finished, the sun was beginning to set.

"I hope you'll stay to dine with me," Jack said, setting down his violin. He sat on the bench next to Stephen.

"Yes, I will," said Stephen. His face as he looked at Jack was calm and amused. Jack found himself again swept into such tender feelings that he longed to place his lips upon Stephen's. Instead he took Stephen's hand and covered it with his.

"Should I tell you your eyes are the waters off of Barbados, my dear? Do I need to tell you such things until you understand my meaning?"

Stephen took a breath and released it, and rubbed his knuckles against Jack's palm. "I think you should leave the poetry for Mr Mowett."

"Then may I do this?" Jack asked, touching Stephen's chin to turn it, and kissing his lips very softly. Stephen's breath shuddered before he mastered it, and he looked at Jack with an unaccustomed questioning gaze.

"What might I do to stop you?" he asked.

"Tell me that it's not what you want," said Jack. "I will stop immediately, and there will be no more to this, I promise." Jack's heart beat faster, for he feared that he just presented Stephen with the very thing he wanted most, and Jack wanted least. And yet he meant every word.

Stephen looked at him silently for some while. "I fear," he said, pausing, and Jack chilled. "I fear I can't tell you that."

"Oh, Stephen," Jack said, caressing his cheek and kissing him again. Stephen answered with another kiss, and another, holding Jack by the neck and stroking his hair. His firmness and determined touches surprised Jack only briefly, but filled him with desire and tenderness and happiness.

Stephen drew away, though his hand still rested on Jack's hair. "But my dear, my sweet, this is madness in every way." His voice lacked certainty.

Jack brushed his fingertips along Stephen's chin and one bushy whisker. "How is it madness?"

"What would you have us do?" asked Stephen, sounding annoyed at the question, as if Jack should have known not to ask it. "Will you take me to your bed? To your hammock, for all love?" To hear Stephen speak of it so plainly stirred Jack's blood, and he found himself caressing Stephen's shoulder and reaching into the open neck of his shirt to feel his skin. "Do you mean to bugger me? Am I to become the captain's boy, smuggled aboard with winks and whistles?"

"Stephen," Jack cried, dropping his hand. But through his shock he saw that Stephen's attack had been a gamble, and the desperation of it surprised Jack a little. "Stephen," he said, taking Stephen's hand in his own and kissing his knuckles. "I would take you to my hammock this minute if you would wish it, and care not what we did, so long as we were together." Stephen opened his lips to speak and protest, but Jack quieted him by speaking on, "And if you were to tell me right now that we should never do those things, that you do not wish it, I would think no more of it. Despite what you say of me sometimes, in your ridiculous jests, I can control myself, when it's important. All I would ask is that you would allow me to kiss you sometimes, as I should like that of all things."

The cabin had grown dark, and Jack could barely see Stephen's face, but he heard Stephen take two breaths and sigh. He felt Stephen's fingers on his cheek, touching him as gently as if searching for splinters, and yet with a different tenderness.

"Is this ship going where she's meant to?" Stephen asked. "On her course, behaving well?"

"Yes," Jack said, puzzled by the change of topic.

"You're not sniffing for prizes? Won't be called aloft to hunt down some villainous sloop?"

"A sloop, dear Stephen!" Jack muttered, but he smiled, for now he perceived the direction of Stephen's questions. "No, no, unless we are beset by an enemy, I will not be needed for another while."

Stephen ran his fingers over Jack's hair and kissed his cheek, murmuring, "Then take me to your hammock, sure, I would wish it. And I care not what we do, for little can I imagine how we will do anything in such a pitiful bed, but I am certain we will figure it out."

Jack felt joy like the rush of wave and wind, and a thrill like but unlike the taking of a prize; unlike, for this prize was his alone, and one he would not give up. He kissed Stephen again slowly, until he heard the door scrape and released Stephen just as Killick came in, bringing candles and dinner.

\-----

There was no barring the door, but Jack, through some ingenuity borne of past experience, sent Killick off to mend his gold lace, ribbons and buttons, and rigged an alarm of plates against the door. Once alone, he stripped down to his shirt almost shyly but with a haste it amused Stephen to see. The very idea of Jack controlling his passions, once roused! For his part, Stephen stripped modestly to his shirt and joined Jack in the captain's hammock, wider than the others, though to be sure, with Jack in it, there was not an extra inch of space. There was nothing for it but to lie upon Jack.

True to his word, Stephen cared not what they did, but expected some urgent fumblings until Jack had sated his initial appetite. However, Jack was quite pleased to lie with Stephen in his arms and kiss him sometimes and rub his hair and whiskers and touch him through his shirt. Stephen discovered he was not as patient; after so long denying himself the indulgence of these feelings, he desired Jack in all ways. He kissed Jack deeply and lifted Jack's shirt to touch and caress his wide, battered body, and Jack responded perfectly and fittingly, holding Stephen over him and reaching under his shirt. There was no urgency until the very end; it was most sweet, most tender. Jack, possessing foresight Stephen had momentarily forgotten, saved their shirts from ruin, and found an extra handkerchief he sacrificed for cleaning. In the hammock they swayed naked together, too content to notice the awkward arrangement of arms and legs.

Stephen kissed Jack's hair, the ribbon long lost, and Jack clasped him in his arms. "My love," said Stephen, "tell me one thing: how can you forget yourself so? Are you not subject to the very same rules which keep your little wooden world together?" He was not teasing, though he tried to say it lightly, but Jack was not deceived and shifted restlessly beneath him.

"Stephen," he said. "You know very well I am not a flogging captain. The ship must be disciplined, but the captain must always judge what is best for his ship, for his little wooden world, as you say."

"But wouldn't disregard for the Articles of War, in this case for the captain's amusement, be an example of the corruptive use of power?" Stephen rested his arm on Jack's chest and propped himself up, the better to see him in the candlelight.

Jack gave him a dark look. "The captain isn't, at the moment, very amused, my dear. And we haven't strictly broken the Article as such. Not yet," he added in such a way that made Stephen smile, for plainly Jack was not much torn over the idea of breaking it at some future point. Jack continued, "And even so, I would balance the ship against the crime."

Stephen stroked his chest and said, "My love, where should we fall in that balance? It will be cruelly hard to conceal it in this little maze of decks and doors and holes, and once the men know--"

"My dear Stephen, the men already know," Jack interrupted him, and smiled at Stephen's astonishment. "They know what is important for them to know: that we love each other dearly, and are the most miserable wretches when we're apart."

Stephen shook his head, saying, "For you, yes, they would forgive anything. As long as you're their Lucky Jack filling their purses with prize money. But for me: how long before their suspicion and superstition and jealousy -- yes, jealousy, for most of them love you well -- will come to bear on me, and make me into the idol of their ill-will?"

"You're quite wrong," Jack said. "Practically every man here has been repaired by you in some miraculous way or another. They regard you most highly, despite your lubberliness. You weren't to know it at the time, as you were almost dead, but the men raced to the Galápagos Islands as if it were Portsmouth itself."

With their captain's will driving them, Stephen thought, but did not say, for either way, it was very touching. He saw that Jack was probably correct in this. They had less to fear from the Surprises than from ill-will outside the ship. He lowered his head to Jack's breast, and Jack caressed his hair, kissing it sometimes.

"And what of Sophie?" Stephen asked, although he had already decided within himself that they could never be together like this on land; it was too dangerous. He would not mention Diana, for he had no answer there, and Jack would have one even less.

"Sophie loves you very well," Jack answered, putting his arms around him. "And understands that I love you. It hasn't escaped her notice that in all our time married, I've spent more time with you than with her or any other."

"Much hasn't escaped her notice," Stephen murmured, patting Jack's great stomach. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine this feeling at an end. He tried to imagine the next time Jack's eye was taken by a pretty woman, or the next time Jack would anger him by choosing prizes over discovery. And though he could imagine all the things Jack was likely to do, he could not imagine being without his love and great warmth and kisses, and he could not imagine never wanting to return them.

They held each other for a while more, silent but for the rush of water around them, and the men above and below, and the bells and calls. Stephen felt when Jack dozed, and kissed him gently and climbed from the hammock. Jack woke, and they dressed, and shared a long embrace before Stephen pulled away.

"I must go, or Padeen will bothering my potto again," he said.

Jack rubbed Stephen's whiskers with his thumbs and smiled. "By all means, my dear, save your potto. And tomorrow, I think, we should try our variation again -- our musical variation," he added, his eyes glinting.

Stephen took his face in his hands and kissed his forehead, and helped him tie his hair back, then slipped from the great cabin, anticipating a line of men, or at least Killick, watching for him. But aside from the Marine at the door and a few men working at the far end, it was quite empty. The door to Jack's cabin stayed open, and Stephen cast a look back. Jack stood by the window, tuning his violin, perfectly calm and easy. He looked up and met Stephen's gaze with a tender, affectionate smile Stephen knew would stay with him for all his days.

(the end)


End file.
